


The Martyr

by CaesarEmporio



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family Drama, Historical Fantasy, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Sexual Content, Sibling Rivalry, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaesarEmporio/pseuds/CaesarEmporio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young, strong and charismatic, Lazarus is the Prince of Ermetes, preparing to be King and it seems nothing can get in his way. But when his sisters Laguna and Lumira, each reigning over an empire of their own, become entangled in a sibling rivalry that leads to a full-out war, Lazarus and his army is sent to keep the peace. </p><p>But there's one problem: Lumira's powers are beyond what anyone knew, and Lazarus has to battle her in a war while also learning more about her abilities to he can figure out how to stop her before she becomes too dangerous for her own good. </p><p>Combines elements of mythology, magic, history and war, plus some good ol' fashioned family affairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Martyr

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you like it. This is my first time writing a proper original story, so any feedback is appreciated :) will try and update as frequently as possible.

Ermetes

 

On the ninth day, the great limestone and marble walls of Ermetes saw it's first glimpses of sunlight in what seemed like a lifetime. It's imposing position between the sweeping plains of the Oceanic Desert and the ferocious waters of the Bahr Sea allowed it condense all of it's extremeties. Each winter brought with it harrowing winds and devastating tantrums of rain; on the contrary, each summer was accompanied by stretches of sunlight that lasted right through to late in the evenings. 

The summers had typically haunted Lazarus. He'd lived through twenty-five, yet was none the wiser as to how stop the perspiration from sapping him of his energy. Every muscle and bone in his body felt that much heavier in the heat of the Bahr summers, which didn't aid Lazarus' cause, given his solid build.   
"The man asked you a question!" The bellow came from his father, as a teenaged Lazarus stood at the measuring podium, cheeks flushed, hair laced to his forehead with sweat, hands aimlessly hanging by his sides, wanting to be able to do something to get out of this predicament.   
"How much did you put on, boy?" came the sound of the elderly man's voice, hunched over as he draped a measuring tape around Lazarus' waist. He couldn't see, but he didn't need to. He knew the disapproving looks his father would be giving him. The elderly man slowly clambering from his knees and rising to be eye-level with Lazarus again, shooting him an empathetic look. Lazarus knew it wasn't the man's fault. He was responsible for the design of each and every man's suit of armour, and Lazarus and Lazarus alone made the decision to be irresponsible with his health over the summer. 

It became known as the Summer of Lazarus, as the King's boy was thoroughly torn apart by the town-folk, many of whom had their own ideas of comedy surrounding Lazarus' particularly unsavoury few months before entering the war. It should have been quirky, and an endearing take on a future King's precarious habit for recklessness. Yet it did little to quell the muddy feeling inside Lazarus that it was a dagger to his reign as King of Ermetes before it had even begun. He sat at the foot of his bed, mulling over his thoughts as he gazed emptily at the dusty wooden floors of his bed-chamber. He wondered who would be the first. 

Would it be Laguna? No, he thought. She's far too enthralled by her own relentless path to the Crown to even care what Lazarus did with his life, or what his chances for becoming a Knight of Ermetes were. It couldn't possibly be Lumira. She'd been confined to her chambers by her own request, so she wouldn't know about anything that had happened beyond the four walls of her chamber for the last thirty days. His mother? Lazarus gave it thought. She was a sympathetic woman who wouldn't enjoy seeing her son be tarnished with a brush that screamed "lazy" and "incapable", but even she would grasp the situation that was at hand. A future King had presented himself on his first day as part of the Sarabi overweight and lacking fitness. This was just as much her empire as it was his father's. 

The knock at the door came heavy, with a pounding thud only made more startling by Lazarus' own anxiety in the wake of the measuring procedure. Before he could even turn around, or approach the door, his father's presence entered the room as if he was the human embodiment of a thunderous storm. King Emmanuel was a towering figure, much taller and far more strapping than his son could ever dream to be. He had piercing blue eyes, only seeped away by the years of governing and battle. Emmanuel shared his eyes with his son, but the similarities ended there. Emmanuel had a long face that spoke of wisdom and intimidation; Lazarus was short, with large features, and dimples that accentuated his cheeks like etchings on a canvas. Each dimple told a story of a life lived free of concern and danger, and full of security and comfort.   
In this moment, Lazarus had never felt so unprotected from the harsh truths of the world beyond the comfort of his luxurious bed-chambers and the temple that he and his family had lived in, bathed in, eaten in and slept in for his whole life. 

"You aren't alone, Lazarus," his father spoke low, the husk in his tone resonating with every softly-spoken syllable. "My first year, I couldn't throw a spear," he continued, eyes wondering into mid-air, as if he was reliving the moments he himself was a first-year Knight of the Sarabi. "Well, that's not entirely true. If you call picking up a spear and holding it by the sharp end "throwing a spear" then I guess I did." Lazarus treasured these rare moments of vulnerability from his father. He wished he could capture the memory and replay it to the thousands of Ermetes who dismiss his father's humility. In these moments, he was not King Emmanuel II of Ermetes; he was simply a father who knew when his son was hurting and suffering.

"Do you know what I did as soon as I was accepted, though?" Emmanuel asked with a raised eyebrow and a glint in his eye that suggested Lazarus already knew the answer, even if he didn't know he knew. "I trained my buttocks off. For months. I strived to erase my weaknesses, and perfected my strengths," he continued at his son's curious silence.   
"You mastered your craft," Lazarus slowly said, almost coming to a realization as he sounded out each word that flowed from his lips.  
"I mastered my craft," Emmanuel repeated. 

"There's something you should know," Emmanuel spoke much more optimistically now, with a glow in his voice that was not there when he thought his son to be depressed. From this position, Lazarus could see his shiny silver hair in the bask of the candle-lit chamber, and it reminded Lazarus how wise his father truly was. 

He turned to face his son, whose dusty brown hair was losing it's slicked look and becoming more fluffy from the heat as it dried into it's natural shape and form. Emmanuel didn't want to speak until his eyes met with his son's. He wanted to see those round globes of sapphire gazing directly into his so he could speak to him as his father. He wanted to be able to see his son staring back at him and know they had a common goal, something beyond blood that binded them together.

"I want to give you Ermetes." 

Oh. He waited, and waited, and waited. The change in his father's expression did not come. If anything, his father's deep, soul-penetrating stare only increased in intensity the more impatient he grew with his son's shock and confusion. 

"I want this city, it's people, the Sarabi, the land. All of it. I want it to be yours," Emmanuel seemed to have concluded his statement, given that he had effectively braced to get off the bed and leave the chambers while Lazarus stirred over this news.

"But - why? Why?" Lazarus stuttered and he was certain he heard his voice reach a high-pitched level he didn't know it was capable of reaching, such was his state of confusion. "Why me?"

"Well, I've granted Lumira ownership of Corinthian. That old run-down city could do with some help and it's, y'know, it's obviously good for us if we can have another city thriving under our wings," Emmanuel looked horrifically exhausted by the words that were coming out of his mouth. He didn't want to have to explain the situation with his sisters to Lazarus, because he knows how much it pains him to think that the two sisters who have rarely supported him throughout his life are suddenly doing better than him in life. He didn't want Lazarus to make his decision on taking Ermetes as his own based on a subliminal manipulation stemming from sibling jealousy and envy. 

"And, y'know, Laguna's training over in Jorgenssen, you'd be elated if you were to see how she flexes her lower arms when she swings a sword. She's training with Baptiste, this fine Jorgenssen gentleman. Your mother wants them to consumate, naturally. You know, sometimes I wonder if I'm even enough for that woman or if she just gets her dosage of romance vicariously through everybody else!" Emmanuel wheezed as he broke out into a chesty laugh, but it was to no avail. Lazarus' mind had wandered, and Emmanuel never doubted that visions of his sisters ruling with authority and power played in Lazarus' mind. 

Did I do the right thing, telling him? Emmanuel thought to himself, pondering the ways in which reminding his son of his powerfully successful sisters could damage the mental toughness he was trying to instill in him by visiting his bed-chambers in the first place. 

"But I want you here," Emmanuel said firmly, shaking Lazarus from his rage-fuelled stupor. 

"Yes," was the sharp response from Lazarus, so fast it was almost missable, his throat so dry from the extended silence it came out as more of a strained whisper. "I'll do it," he said much clearer, his mouth hanging open lazily, his eyes wide, almost intentionally avoiding direct contact with his father's. Emmanuel was not convinced by Lazarus' response. 

Did I do the right thing, telling him? Emmanuel thought to himself again. No. The only thing that could possibly be more dangerous for Lazarus than joining the Sarabi with no training, skills or the strength to do so would be to rule an entire empire without truly wanting to. He'd broken his son's spirit, but most of all, he'd crushed his son's already-fragile mentality. He queried if his son would challenge his authority, argue in defence on himself, or simply refuse his opinions if he weren't the King. 

The cycle of the Crown was a viscious one. He strived to be able to have normal conversations with his son about his endeavours in life; to be able to take his son to the Bahr Sea and jump off the cliffs of Eba, awaiting in the cold waters below to catch Lazarus as he jumped after his father. However, such endeavours couldn't possibly culminate in their lives. Instead of talking about a leap of faith to instill bravery into his son, he's talking about signing the ownership of all the lands of Ermetes to instill bravery into his son. He'd always found that it was still important for Lazarus, and no one could fault his efforts to prepare Lazarus for his unique future, yet he felt more like a mentor than a father to Lazarus in these particular moments. Was he encouraging his son to be the best possible version of himself that he could be? One who embraces his faults and adds a touch of individuality to the world? Or was he grooming his son for the moment when he will sit on his throne, waiting for a moment when his empire will be impenetrable that will never come? 



In the ten years that had passed since that conversation with his son, Emmanuel had witnessed Lazarus bloom before his eyes. 

"I don't believe it's normal for a man to hold his sword in such a manner. Can't you train him out of it?" Fiodora muttered under her breath to Emmanuel, so the Sarabi guards within ear-shot couldn't even catch her lips moving. Still, the Queen of Ermetes spoke as eloquently as ever. It was impossible to struggle to comprehend each and every word she said, each syllable perfectly pronounced, rolled off her thin lips like acid. Fiodora was a beautiful woman, her light blonde hair so radiant in the sunlight of early summer that it took on an almost crimson shade. Her high cheek-bones often gave the impression that she was frowning, even when she wasn't. Fiodora wouldn't speak of this, but it was a natural quality of her appearance she wasn't entirely disatisfied with, as it protected her emotions and ensured people would always think she's suspicious of them. 

The royals were seated on the open terrace, shaded by the large palm trees that towered above them, casting lingering shadows over the field where Lazarus was putting on a masterclass in one-handed sword-fighting. Emmanuel was calm, unafraid of his son's unconventional habit of gripping the sword at it's lowest point. He knew deep down that Fiodora knew Lazarus was in control, but she couldn't possibly sit in ease while watching her son wield a sword against three youths. Lazarus caught sight of his mother, shuffling in her seat, looking all the more restless the longer it took for Lazarus to force his opponents to bend at the knee in mercy. He could recognise her signature locks that curled neatly over her right shoulder in a sea of a hundred people. The bond between the two of them - both of his parents, in fact - had only been solidified since he took Ermetes as his own and became Chief of the Sarabi. 

"My dear, never try and break a man's habit," was Emmanuel's reply, tilting his head towards the field where Lazarus was swinging freely, his opponents too distracted with ducking and evading the rapid weapon to even strike Lazarus themselves. "It's bloody ill-advisable, though!" Emmanuel settled with a nervous laugh. 

Indeed, the technique was unusual. Holding the sword at it's lowest point allowed for more flexibility through his wrist. Lazarus was able to bend the muscles in his hand into different angles because they were free, while others drained the blood-flow out of their hands from simply gripping the sword too tight out of fear of losing control of the weapon. The constant movement in his hands did cause frequent cramping, and almost on a daily basis, Lazarus would bathe his hand in ice, although the Ermetes summer meant he often had to settle for the coldest fresh water from the rainforrests. 

"Who would've thought?" Emmanuel pondered aloud, perhaps intentionally, as he glanced over to catch Fiodora's reaction. She was typically subdued. Unlike Emmanuel, she didn't take pride in the fact that one of their children was thriving as a popular, universally-admired leader of the city, because it only emphasized the doomed fate they consigned their two other children to. 

"You are parading it like it's a known fact that he'll do it." The words stunned Emmanuel, who was blithely unaware of Fiodora's lingering doubts. "What if he were to say no?" Fiodora quipped, pursing her lips and keeping her frosty gaze set firmly on her son and away from the man she was speaking to. At that time, a faint breeze picked up, causing the palm trees to sway ever-so-slightly, and for Fiodora to get a chill. She wrapped her gold-plated cape around her upper half until it was brushing against her chin.

"What is the meaning of this manic chill in summer?" Fiodora said impatiently, enforcing the unspoken idea that the conversation was over. 

Emmanuel's conversations with himself were never over, though. They littered his conscience until he had to sift through just to find the particular issue that pertained to a particular moment in time. 

By nightfall, the momentary chill had passed, and it was a humid night that saw fleas hover around the table where an elaborate feast had been prepared by Lazarus' grandmother, Hyacinthe, and the cooks of Ermetes. Hyacinthe, or as she opted to be referred to, 'Mama Hyacinthe', had always enjoyed a famous partnership with the cooks of the Ermetes royal family for as long as Lazarus could remember. There had never been an extended period of time in his life where he went without one of Mama Hyacinthe's fried ostrich egg omelette, or a sprawling roasted turkey with lavendar garnishings straight from the gardens of the Temple of Ebrahim. Even the feasts that were dulled by the constant quarrelling between Laguna and Lumira, or between his sisters and his parents were still some of the most joyous moments from his youth. 

Lazarus had an issue he wanted to address with his father, but it was a contentious issue, one where he couldn't possibly escape with a light-hearted dismissal. Nothing could get past Mama Hyacinthe, and no one knew the empire like Emmanuel. 

"Say, father?" Lazarus said after clearing his throat. He didn't shy away, but now he couldn't back out. "I had an idea regarding a possible act of legislation that I think is worth considering. Y'know, if you are allowed to hear my opinion," he bowed his head, both as an act of subconscious submission, but also as a sign of respect to his father's standing as King. Lazarus knew how to play the game, though. He'd learned it from the best. If there was a way to win over Emmanuel's approval and get his attention, it's to show your complete and unwavering admiration and respect for him.

"Well go on then, my turkey's gonna' go cold soon!" Mama Hyacinthe spoke up, startling Lazarus and reminding him of the extra presence at the table. 

"I was thinking we could put limitations, or, or -" his mouth had seemingly stopped working. His lips moved, yet no words were coming out. His mind had shut-down, incapable of mustering the words required to finish the sentence. 

Just wonderful. About to present your first act of legislation and you shit all over yourself! 

"We could change the laws for Fuccism!" Lazarus almost screamed, rattling the words off his tongue as soon as they came to mind. He hoped with everything he had that everyone at the table heard what he had said, because he couldn't imagine repeating the words a second time. His head was bowed, staring absently at the fingers he was twitching back and forth in his lap, too intimidated and embarrassed and humiliated to look up. 

"And start a whole fucking war? Are you mad?" He heard his father's voice boom from the other end of the table, which seemed as if it had shrunk in the last few seconds as it felt like his entire family - and the rest of the Ermetes parliament - were hounding him. Just the thought of it had the collar around his neck feeling suffocatingly tight. 

Well, that went well. 

The only good thing - and to Lazarus, it truly was the only good thing about this situation - was that everyone at the table was too stunned to say anything else. Were they more stunned that Lazarus, the once submissive little baby of the family was stepping up to the table with acts of legislation? Or were they more stunned that he had suggested banning or illegalising one of the single most popular radical ideas about faith and spirituality in Ermetes society? 

Lazarus had to concede to himself that the latter point was true. Fuccism, derived from the mythical phenomena Fuccia, has been just as unifying as it has been divisive across all of the Palassia, not just Ermetes. The unfounded beliefs that Fuccia abilities are directly connected with the Higher Power almost need no evidence, such is the strength of belief amongst it's followers. 

The silence at the table continued, as if his family needed Lazarus to elaborate further in order to prove he hadn't lost his mind. They had handed him a silver platter to showcase his intelligence and his capabilities as a ruler, not just as a fighter. He can recall the first time his father said the words, 'To be King is not to fight, but to rule.' No time exemplified that idea more than in this moment, when the bonds of trust he established with his peers - not just as friends or family, but as legitimate colleagues in the Ermetes parliament - were more important than any sword-fighting technique he could flaunt. 

"The murders have been getting out of control," he said spritely, rejuvenated with a newfound confidence. Again, no response. He felt his breathing start to increase, every action in his body became filled with anger at how much he was struggling to convey his message. Every pulse of his temple was filled with frustration, every throb of his heart-beat against his chest was filled with rage, every twitch of his toes in his steel boots filled with determination. "Come on, you've gotta' agree! A guy walks up onto the roof of the Temple in the town and walks right off. Kills himself just like that. Believes he can fly, tells everyone below to watch him fly because he's got the Fuccia. It's bullshit!" 

"I don't... I don't see how that's murder," Mama Hyacinthe interjects flatly. 

Great, they're looking at the semantics of what I'm saying instead of actually listening to what I'm saying! 

"It's murder because these are innocent people being brainwashed. They walk into the Temple down-town, and some old artefact swipes their forehead with grapefruit juice and then, what, they're Fuccian? So they think they can just do anything?" Lazarus was enjoying this feeling, if he was being truthful with himself. The feeling of enforcing a message, something that's actually important, not just sinking into a plush pig-skin chair shuffling cards, drinking wine and talking about taxes and loan approvals. For what felt like the first time in his life, he was fighting for something, avidly passionate about something. He couldn't give up or back away now. Sensing the message still wasn't quite being absorbed by his family, he needed to change courses and take a different approach.

"OK. So it's not murder. I get it, they're making their own choices. But can't you see how dangerous this is? I know you don't want to acknowledge it. It kills you inside, and it eats you up with nerves and fear, but we all know how bad this Fuccism thing has gotten. We all know someone who thinks they can do Fuccia!" 

Wait... I take it back. Let the Higher Power please take it back.

"What are you saying?" Fiodora interrupts, finally showing some emotions other than confusion as she gives her son the angry mother expression, eyebrows furrowed and lips as typically pursed as they could be. He also heard shocked gasps from his father and Mama Hyacinthe, yet focused only on his mother when he saw the raw disbelief running through his mothers tone of voice. It's too late. He'd feel foolish if he took the coward's way out even though he's blatantly offended everyone in his vacinity. He almost wants to call the cooks in and invite them to sit at the table. He's certain the modest town-folk who don't get paid enough for their service to the family would love to join in the festivities and make Lazarus out to be a radical extremist who deserves a cell in the dungeons of Ermetes. 

"I'm saying..." he says slowly, his voice in an almost whisper, as if speaking with a more gentle tone will somehow resonate around the room and calm the mood down. "I'm saying that we've all heard the stories that have been coming out of Corinthian. We've all heard it, and we've been told it's true, plus a million other alternative truths, and we try to ignore them, because we're supposed to hate her, and -"

"NO!" Fiodora yelled, slamming her fist down on the marble table-top with such a ferocity the crystal plates and goblets clattered on the surface. It took a few seconds for Fiodora to realize she had badly injured her hand, cradling her wrist with her other hand as it already looked swollen and bruised. She gasped in pain, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, head falling onto Emmanuel's shoulders as he wrapped his arms around her firmly and guided her to sit down. She began hysterically weeping as Mama Hyacinthe tended to her hand. Lazarus stood in shock, lips quivering in silent bewilderment at the night's events. Before he could react or speak, Emmanuel turned his head over his shoulder that was rubbing Fiodora's back, and stared at Lazarus with the darkest expression Lazarus had seen in his twenty-five years alive. His father's eyes never left him, and only grew darker, to the point where Lazarus didn't know what his father's next action would be. 

He excused himself from the room, sprinting up to his bed-chamber, eyes subconsciously glancing behind him to ensure his father hadn't pursuited him, and locked his door behind him.

It would be impossible for his first discussion about legislation to have gone any worse. Lazarus fisted his pillow in aggitation as the realization settled in that he'd been too ambitious too early. He didn't possess the kind of power, nor the kind of experience, to suggest something as radical as restricting Fuccism. 

Yet he was uncompromising in his belief that he was in the right. For his family didn't want him to speak of it openly and honestly, and everyone in Ermetes seems afraid to directly address the issue of Fuccism and it's growing stature in Ermetes society. 

The worst part of it all is that he's alone, sweat dripping down every contour of his body in frustration, in isolation wishing he could do more. His mother is down-stairs crying because she doesn't know what will happen if the stories coming out of Corinthian are true. She doesn't know what will happen if Lumira truly believes she possesses Fuccia, and the lengths she will go to in order to try and prove it.


End file.
